


What Comes From Your Hand

by Ashfae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Gift Giving, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unrepentant Fluff, fluff and nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/pseuds/Ashfae
Summary: Aziraphale realizes a large number of his favorite possessions all have an odd thing in common.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 260
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	What Comes From Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Largely unedited shameless fluff because who doesn't need warm fluffy things just now? Thanks to Fyre for the history check because even in fluff and nonsense fics I am apparently incapable of not spending several hours doing research. Title is taken from 1 Chronicles 29:14.

The first time it happened, Aziraphale thought nothing of it.

They met by chance in Byzantium sometime during the early fourth century, another of those coincidences where they were in the same place at the same time for work. As sharing a meal in Rome back in 41 A.D. had been surprisingly interesting Aziraphale offered an invitation again, and was rather pleased when Crawly--Crowley, it was Crowley now, he really must remember--agreed. Aziraphale mentioned a place he'd heard of reputed to have truly excellent salted pork, Crowley said he knew the city and would lead the way.

Crowley might have claimed to know the city, but he took them a very circuitous route going through a marketplace, and while fighting the crowds they passed by a particular street vendor and Aziraphale paused. A large pendant had caught his eye, a golden circle of interlocking wings dangling from a chain of golden links. It quite took his fancy, and he stopped for a closer look and a few questions and ultimately purchased it.

Crowley had muttered about the waste of time but it didn't take all that long really, and then for the rest of the afternoon they bickered about greed and whether the desire for beautiful objects lifted the soul or lowered it. Aziraphale had worn his new pendant the entire time. There was one point during the argument when he could have sworn Crowley glanced down at the gold with an odd expression, his smirk fading into something a little more personally satisfied than the was really warranted by the debate, but then the conversation shifted and it was forgotten. 

Aziraphale wore the pendant for centuries after, until time and place dictated it should be put aside in favor of other fashions, but kept it safe with a few other treasured possessions.

The next time was in Nippon in Heian-kyō, in the tenth century. They agreed to try the local saké when Crowley suddenly said he'd spotted the person he was in town to tempt and could Aziraphale just hang on for a few minutes until the job was done, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes and reluctantly agreed. Fortunately there was a temple nearby that looked rather pleasant, and he wandered in to explore while he waited. In it he found a particularly wonderful copy of the _Man'yōshū_ , written with some of the most delicate calligraphy Aziraphale had ever seen, truly a work of art. The monks had been pleased by his exquisitely worded compliments on their skill, and after a most generous donation towards the temple's upkeep they were also pleased to make a gift of the scroll to the strange but unquestionably polite and knowledgeable foreigner. Aziraphale spent the rest of the evening praising it to Crowley, who rolled his eyes and said he didn't understand the point of poetry, at which Aziraphale sputtered and became quite vehement in his attempts to explain the virtues of human writing and poetic forms. Crowley just looked amused.

It was a book during the thirteenth century, an exceptionally well-illustrated copy of _Ramavataram_. The Arrangement was more or less in place by that point and Aziraphale had agreed to do a minor temptation on a shopkeeper on Crowley's behalf as long as he was going to be Sri Lanka anyway, and so he did--but he bought the book from the shopkeeper first. It was a very minor temptation, truthfully, hardly worth the effort. Aziraphale had wondered what the importance of it was, but when they met a decade or so later and he asked Crowley the demon had made a rude noise and said that no one knew what the Powers That Ruled Below were thinking and could the angel pass that jug over if he was quite finished with it?

In London in the late 1500s Crowley had all but hauled him into a shop, claiming he needed a pair of ear-rings and taking an absurd amount of time dithering. While Crowley tried on pair after pair of silver bands Aziraphale finally gave up offering his opinion and idly looked around, then spotted a white neck ruff with golden thread and found it charming. He bought it at once. Oddly, Crowley had left without settling on anything for himself in the end, though he was more than willing to tease Aziraphale about his purchase. 

In the seventeenth century it was a snuff box. Aziraphale had been collecting them for some time and was quite proud of his assortment, but this one truly was exceptional. Gold, embedded with tiny diamonds in a geometric design on the sides, and a large medallion on the lid with three angels dancing, done in meticulous detail. A fanciful and rather gaudy thing if he was honest with himself, but altogether charming. He'd only been in Marseille running another errand of Crowley's but considered himself more than repaid by his discovery. 

In the nineteenth century it was an umbrella with an intricately carved ivory handle suggestive of layered feathers, and by then Aziraphale was beginning to have faint suspicions. Only faint ones; it was hardly strange for them to wander to some other destination after meeting at the park, usually his beloved bookshop, and it wasn't so unusual a route for them to have taken. And it was a most prestigious and well-known shop, and it had just begun to rain...still, the suspicion lingered in the back of his mind.

In the late 1950s Crowley insisted that if they were going to be meeting to drink Châteauneuf-du-Pape he wanted to pick his own glass to drink from, something proper and not decorated with fiddly angel nonsense, and while they were out looking at glassware and the like Aziraphale found a delightful set of ceramic mugs, with wing-shaped handles and just the right size for cocoa. Crowley decried them on sight, rolling his head back and all but begging Aziraphale not to buy the things, they were so bloody twee and he'd be damned again if he ever drank so much as tap water out of them. Aziraphale had simply smiled and purchased half a dozen. It was possible he might need more than one, even if Crowley would never touch them; Aziraphale sometimes had other guests, though it was rare. And things did break now and then, and he'd hate to have to use a cup that had once been broken. He'd know. They'd bickered amiably about them all the way back to the bookshop; Crowley complained he was fussy and Aziraphale tried not to smile too broadly. He was sure after that. 

Another fifty years passed. Then another eleven, and then a week. And then a night, spent at Crowley's flat, during which many things were said, apologies and promises and assurances, and plans were formed and resolutions made.

The next day they dined at the Ritz and toasted the world, which was so wonderfully still there to be celebrated.

Towards the end of the meal, after much laughter and stories shared about American televangelists and answering machines, Aziraphale wiped his mouth with his napkin. Using his free hand, of course; the other had been resting on the table for some half an hour, with Crowley's long fingers curved under it. "You'll come back to the bookshop with me, won't you, my dear?" he asked casually. "I have something I'd rather like to show you."

Crowley raised an elegant eyebrow, just the faintest hint of a smirk on his face. "That sounds promising."

Aziraphale tutted. "Stop that, wicked creature, I'm quite serious. There's something I've been meaning to ask you for some time, and this strikes me as an excellent opportunity." Crowley's expression stayed suggestive bordering on an outright leer, and Aziraphale blushed faintly. "I _said_ , stop that. I mean something _quite_ different."

"Can't blame a demon for hoping," Crowley drawled. He turned his hand under Aziraphale and squeezed his fingers, then released them and waved a hand for the bill. 

"I dare say we can explore your thoughts later," Aziraphale conceded. "In great detail, and possibly with demonstrations." His eyes twinkled with amusement as Crowley, who had picked up his wine glass to drain the last of it, suddenly choked on the contents. Aziraphale waited politely until the demon was done sputtering before continuing. "But this is a small matter I'd rather like to have sorted out first. I've been wondering about it for quite a long time, you see."

"Yeah...sure, angel," Crowley said, looking a little dazed. "Whatever you like." Aziraphale beamed at him.

Aziraphale was nearly bouncing on his feet when they reached the bookshop. It wasn't that he hadn't believed Crowley when the latter assured him it was miraculously restored; he'd seen the Bentley for himself, after all. But it was one thing to be told and another thing to see it. And another thing again, after the events of the past several days, to open the door and gesture Crowley in, to close and lock the door behind them, to feel _home_ settling comfortably upon his shoulders. "If you would get the wine, my dear?" he asked gaily as they walked towards the back. "You know where it's kept."

"Should do, after all these years." Crowley tossed a grin over his shoulder as he turned the corner to where the bottles were kept, pocketing his sunglasses as he went. 

Aziraphale smiled fondly after him, then walked over to a shelf next to his desk, lifting off a sizable mahogony chest kept on one of the shelves. By the time Crowley had selected a suitable vintage and a couple of wineglasses, Aziraphale was seated with the chest before him--not in his usual armchair, but on the sofa. Crowley cocked an eyebrow at the box as he sat next to the angel and proceeded to pour them both a glass of wine. "So what's this, then?"

"Well, my dear, that's what I was rather hoping you might tell me."

Aziraphale opened the chest with both hands, then pushed it over so Crowley could see inside. Crowley immediately went still.

On a lining of dark velvet rested an odd assortment of things. His old Elizabethan ruff, a little the worse for wear but the gold thread still glinting. A top hat. A few golden beads with feathery designs inscribed on them, threaded onto an aged leather cord. One of the winged ceramic mugs, pristine and never used, unlike the other half-dozen or so sitting on a shelf only a few steps away. A golden snuffbox, a golden pendant, a cigarette lighter. A few other items. Not the books, of course, those were properly stored and catalogued according to his personal system, and not the ivory-handled umbrella which was kept by the hat stand. But the box contained everything else he'd been reasonably sure about.

Crowley fidgeted. "Just a box of stuff, then," he said gruffly, taking a drink. "Dunno what you expect me to say about it all."

"None of them are familiar to you? Not in the least?" Aziraphale prompted.

The back of Crowley's neck reddened. "Think I remember that ridiculous neck ruff thing. Never understood why you didn't feel choked in it. And that's one of your mugs, though what it's doing in that box I can't imagine."

Aziraphale was still smiling. "You're a terrible liar, my dear." He reached into the chest and ran a finger along the edge of the golden pendant. There was no sign of tarnish; he wouldn't permit it. "They're all from you, aren't they?"

"No idea what you're on about." Crowley took another drink, not meeting his eyes. "I never gave you any of those. Wasn't even with you when you got most of them."

"I know, that's why it took me so long to realize. It was really very clever of you." Aziraphale looked down into the chest, every item in it a fond memory. "But you lead me to all of them, didn't you? You thought I might enjoy them and made sure they crossed my path. Took quite convoluted and extreme measures at times to ensure it, in fact."

There was a long moment of silence.

"...might've done," Crowley said finally, his voice low and gruff, his face still turned away. "Demonic, you know. Putting temptation in the path of an angel. Not my fault you gave in."

Aziraphale thought his heart really might burst with affection. "If that's how you want to frame it. But to me it seems much more as though you gave me each one, albeit a little indirectly. I wouldn't have found them on my own, after all. And they've all been so _very_ dear to me, the more so for having come from you." Crowley flushed a bit deeper, leaning his mouth on his fist as though to hold back some inappropriate, undemonic emotion. "In fact I consider them among my most cherished possessions. Thank you so very much."

Crowley shook his head at once. "Don't thank me. You bought them, not me, so no thanking me."

"As you wish, my dear." Aziraphale shifted a little closer. "But you've given me so many gifts over the years, even if we discount these. If you won't let me thank you, at least let me give you a few in return."

Slowly, so that Crowley would have ample time to move away if he wished--which Aziraphale did not anticipate--the angel leaned in and brushed his lips softly against Crowley's cheek. He heard a swift intake of breath. Instead of pulling away he lingered for a moment, enjoying the gentle brush of his mouth against the demon's skin.

Then Aziraphale took Crowley's chin in his hand and turned his head, kissed the other cheek with the same soft deliberation. Crowley's eyes, which had been wide and unblinking, fluttered shut as the angel moved on to kiss his forehead, his temples, his now-closed eyelids, the tip of his nose--Aziraphale chuckled at that, and Crowley snorted--and then finally, inevitably, his lips. He lingered there longest of all. Crowley breathed in hard through his nose, then slowly outwards as he gradually relaxed into it. 

There was a fumbling by their legs, and long fingers covered and squeezed Aziraphale's own where his hand rested on the couch between them. The kiss came to its natural conclusion, but they still leaned against each other, foreheads touching. Aziraphale sighed happily, more content than he could ever remember being.

"...thanks," Crowley mumbled, looking down at their joined fingers. For all the hesitancy in the word, his clutch of his hand was hard.

"You're so very welcome, my dearest." Aziraphale's mouth quirked up in a thoroughly wicked smile as he caressed the back of Crowley's hand with his thumb. "I hope to give you many, many more later, if I may."

Crowley laughed breathlessly. "I didn't give you _that_ many gifts, angel. It won't take you long to even up the numbers."

"I'm sure you have other things to give me for which I will then owe you thanks." Aziraphale chuckled again as Crowley flushed, enjoying the sight immensely. "And there are a number of things I hope to offer you, should you wish them."

Crowley's long fingers slid from Aziraphale's shoulder down to rest on his chest, over the heart. "There's only one thing I want." His voice was low and serious. "Only thing I ever wanted. You know that."

"I do." A warmth suffused Aziraphale's body, starting from the heart and moving outwards until he was brimming over with it. "And it's already yours, dearest. It's been yours for a very long time, even if I couldn't tell you." He wouldn't apologize, not now; there had already been apologies last night, and no doubt would be more, but this was a moment for gratitude. 

And, perhaps, for celebration. Crowley's mouth broadened into his usual insouciant smirk. "In that case," he said, trailing his fingers up from Aziraphale's heart to tug at his necktie, "I'd better be sure to thank you for it, shouldn't I."

Inwardly, Aziraphale was singing. He leant forward again, taking Crowley's face in both his hands. "You certainly should," he said, breathless with joy and anticipation, just before their lips met again. "There are certain courtesies to be observed, after all, where gifts are involved. Particularly those which are hand-delivered."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope it made you smile. I always welcome concrit and comments make the world go 'round. Find me at https://www.tumblr.com/ashfae if you're thus inclined. =)


End file.
